


A Beautiful Mess

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Marauders' Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-27
Updated: 2009-04-07
Packaged: 2019-01-19 10:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12408882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Beautiful: adj.–1. having qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about. 2. excellent of its kind. Mess: n–1. untidy or disordered condition. 2. a state of embarrassing confusion. 3. a person whose life affairs are in state of confusion. Lily Evans’s life…is all of the above.





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**_“The family. We were a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another's desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms, inflicting pain and kissing to heal it in the same instant, loving, laughing, defending, and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together.”_ **

**_Erma Bombeck_ **

**_chapter one_**

Riversway Docks. The place where anybody who’s anybody goes on Saturday nights. There’s an old shop at the end of the pier, nestled between the side of a hill and a line of greasy, old, abandoned boat sheds. A rusty sign that hangs above the door reads ‘Eugene’s Petrol and Oil’, but the place is so old that no one remembers who Eugene is anymore. No one hasused the building in years; it’s a well-known fact that all the young people of Preston gather there for their parties. Just like clockwork, every Saturday night around nine, a group of kids—usually some of the crunchier dropouts who never finished senior school with their cans of lager and joints and trashed up women—motor right up to the little dock outside and start unloading. It doesn’t take long for word to travel—most of the time, people can hear the roar of the boat’s engine from any given spot in town—and in less than an hour, over half the population of Preston’s fifteen to twenty-three-year-olds are in the old building, dancing and smoking and drinking and having themselves a good old time.

My sister Petunia used to go to the parties. Every Saturday, after our family game night, she’d climb up the stairs with me to our bedroom, pack her clothes into a bag, and wait until our parents were asleep. I’d feel my bed dip as she’d step up to climb over me and out the window, pushing up the glass pane and swinging one leg over the sill before tossing her bag and shoes out into the path in front of our house. Someone would always be waiting outside for her—a boyfriend, or one of her many girlfriends, ready to sneak out into the night and make the short trek down to the dock. I’d lay there, curled into a ball with my blankets wrapped tightly around my shoulders, the way I always slept, my eyelids opened just the teeniest bit so I could see her fuzzy outline moving silently around the room. I never said anything to her, never did anything to make her think I might be awake, but every single time she snuck out, she’d look over at me and hesitate just the slightest bit, her eyes squinting down at me through the darkness, and whisper, “I’ll be back in a little while, don’t worry. Sleep well, Lily.” 

I asked her one time, when we were older and both gone our separate ways, how she’d known I was awake. She’d just shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I guess it was just one of those sister things. I always knew you were awake, watching me.” 

One thing she didn’t know, though, was that I was always awake when she came tumbling through the window—sometimes only minutes before I’d hear the creaking of my parents’ bedroom door and the soft pad of my dad’s slippers on the stairs as he made his way down to the kitchen for his morning cup of coffee. I’d help her to her feet and guide her over to her bed, while she hung on my arm, giggling hopelessly and stumbling around and making enough ruckus that I was sure even the neighbours could hear her. I’d force two Motrin tablets and a capful of Pepto-Bismol into her mouth,pull her shoes off, and crawl back into my own bed to sleep until noon and make up for all the hours during the night I’d stayed awake, waiting up for her. 

I never told her I did this, not even after we were moved out of the house and free to talk about our childhood scandals without any fear of parental reprimand. The way I looked at it, I had enough to hold above my sister, without having her know that it was me who covered for her every single Saturday night during the summer, from the time I was thirteen until she moved out, when I was seventeen. I never said anything, and she never asked, not even bothering to look at me when she walked into the kitchen around mid- afternoon on Sunday, moaning about her headache and asking us to please, for God’s sake, don’t yell, we’re all right here and we can hear each other perfectly. 

I never went to the parties. Well, I went to one when I was fifteen with my best Muggle friend, Renee, but that was the first and last time I ever set foot in the old shack. I wasn’t into smoking, drinking and having sex with people whose names I didn’t know. I much rather preferred to stay home and watch World War II documentaries with my dad, because he loved them and everyone else thought they were boring and I took pity on him. Or spend the evening reading my mum’s old Jane Austen novels in the rocking chair next to her bedroom window while she sat on the bed and crocheted, Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra blaring from the little phonograph on her desk as she sang along in her soft soprano, knowing every line. 

I’ve always found the difference between my only sister and me a little bit comical. As kids, she’d always been the perfect one—perfect grades, perfect appearance, perfect disposition. She was the calm, quiet, sensible one that would always tattle on you if you stole even half a biscuitout of the tin, and always made sure her shoes were tied into neat bows and that her hair was perfectly combed. Her one downfall, though, was that she wanted everyone’s approval. She followed the crowd. If a group of our friends wanted to go down to the cinema and see a movie, and I wanted to go play at the park, she would always choose them over me, just because doing so would put her in everyone else’s favour--even though she hated the cinema. That need to be liked stayed with her all the way up through primary school. Which was how she ended up the way she was: wild, out of control, rebellious. She hit thirteen, and, magically, she was every parent’s worst nightmare—too short skirts, too low-cut tops, too much make-up, no regard for the rules, a group of friends that my parents hated because they were loud and obnoxious and _teenagers_. When I was younger, I often wished that I could just wave my wand and whisper a spell, and _poof_ ; she would be the old Petunia again. 

I, on the other hand, had always been the more defiant child. I was the one that would go colour on the easy chair with a bright blue crayon even though Daddy said not to because, hey, blue went with the orange upholstery, didn’t it? I was the one that my parents never left alone because something would always end up mysteriously broke, defaced, or gone when in my presence. I “marched to my own drum”, as my Gran said. My hair and clothes were always a mess, I was constantly receiving bruises and scrapes from falling out of trees, and I was never quiet or still when I was supposed to be. It was the whole Youngest Child Syndrome that parents talk about. 

But then, I got my Hogwarts letter, and everything started to change. It was extremely gradual—there wasn’t just a day that I woke up and thought, _I’m going to alphabetise all my books and records today because them being out of order is giving me a migraine._ Or, _I’m going to spend my free period in the library working on next week’s essay that hasn’t even been assigned yet, instead of hanging out with my friends by the lake_ —moving so slowly that it wasn’t noticeable until I looked back over time and saw how far I’d come. 

I think the real catalyst was being in a strange place with people I didn’t know, and a House Points system. I just learned to suppress my curiosity and not to do anything that had the possibility of getting me into trouble. A few detentions and threats from Professor McGonagall early on in my first year had taught me that lesson. And, of course, I had Sev to kind of guide me along and show me what not to do. 

Academics had never really been important to me before, but with a whole new world of opportunities opened up to me, I felt like I had to study hard and work even harder. Especially since I was a Muggleborn. I was at a disadvantage—I hadn’t had parents, grandparents, and siblings to hear all this from. So I pushed myself hard, made myself learn everything I possibly could about the Wizarding World and then some. I read anything and everything I could get my hands on. I had to prove to myself—and to everyone around me—that I could make it as a witch. And make it, I did. I quickly rose to the top of the class and hovered there, above everyone else. I enjoyed my intelligence, celebrated it, even showed it off at some times. It was what made me unique. 

I think the rest of it—the obsessive cleaning and organisation, the no-tolerance for funny business—came naturally. I lived in a dormitory with five other girls, all of who had as much stuff, or more, as I did, and all of who were complete pigs. If you wanted to keep your stuff _yours_ , you learned to keep it neat, tidy, and labelled. Otherwise, it was liable to walk away with one of the girls and not show up again for weeks, until somebody gathered their stuff together for holiday and found your missing bikini top wedged between their box spring and the wall. And of course, having naturally red hair and tons of freckles and being on the rather short side made me an automatic target for jokes and pranks and bullying. Which was why I nursed such a hatred of the Marauders and all they did— _sans_ Remus Lupin, who was actually one of the first friends I made at school—until I got a little bit older and saw that they really had been harmless jokes. 

And while all of this changed me drastically, I still remained the same. I still loved to watch old black and white soap operas and paint my toenails in bright colours and eat chocolate ice cream while I studied. I still loved going out with my friends and having a good time in Hogsmeade—just as long as we were back by ten so I could get a proper night’s rest. I was still just as fiery and outgoing and witty as I had been as I child, it was just that school and learning came before everything else, and I would have nothing stand in the way of my education. 

Things started getting really bad, though, around the middle of fifth year when I not only had to put up with James Potter’s increasingly aggressive pursuits and an extremely nasty break up, but also the rising of Lord Voldemort and the whispers of a Wizarding war that were passing somehow both reluctantly and rapidly through the grapevine. I found the comfort of my meticulously organised wardrobe and bookshelf and life the only thing I could count on to be there and be consistent during increasingly dark and dangerous days. But, eventually, there came a time when not even my neat block handwriting and the soothing, evenly spaced squares of my pocket planner’s mini calendar could bring me a sense of peace. It was then that I finally let James Potter—James, with his wildly out of control hair and his gangly arms and legs and his easy smile and sparkling eyes and beautiful soul; James, who was the farthest from neat and organised and everything’s-under-control-and-where-it-should-be that you could get—slip his warm hand into mine and guide me carefully, patiently, into that scary world of the unknown. 

* * * * * * * 

We’d all heard the story a gazillion times, approximately. They’d met at the market, in the fruit and veg section, where they’d both happened to reach for the only melon that was left. It was ridiculously cliché, but “cliché” seemed to be the definition of all that had happened in Petunia and Vernon’s relationship. 

“And then,” my sister said, her gooey gaze moving over to her fiancée as she squeezed his hand under the table, “his fingers brushed mine, and I just _knew_ it was meant to be.” 

I saw my dad mouth these last twelve words to himself as he wound his fork in a pile of spaghetti noodles, rolling his eyes as he popped them in his mouth, and I bit my lip to hide my grin. My father was just about as fond of Vernon Dursley as a cat was of water skiing. 

“That is _such_ a beautiful story,” Mrs. Dursley gushed, smiling sappily at her only son as one of her hands fluttered over her heart. 

“Gimme a break,” my dad muttered, followed quickly by a not so subtle “ow!” as my mother stomped the heel of her pumps down onto his toes. I smoothly disguised my snort of laughter as a cough, and tried to pretend I didn’t see the death glare Petunia was sending me over the edge of her wine glass. 

“Are you alright, Jonathon?” Mrs. Dursley asked, looking worriedly over at my dad, as if she thought he was having some sort of episode or something. 

“Just fine,” my dad managed to croak, sending her a smile that looked more like a grimace. Mrs. Dursley continued to look at him for a few seconds, reassuring herself that he really was a-okay, I’m sure, before turning back to her own plate of pasta, which held her third helping. 

“It’s such a shame that Marjory couldn’t be here,” my mother said, her voice sugary-sweet, changing the subject. 

“Oh, isn’t it?” Mrs. Dursley replied wholeheartedly. “She was just _so_ upset it last night on the telephone, but they have that best of breed competition bright and early tomorrow morning, and she just couldn’t miss it, not with all the work she’s put into her Sir Wesley this year.” 

I couldn’t imagine Vernon’s monster of a sister—who bore an uncanny resemblance to her brood of slobbering, dim witted bulldogs—being “just so upset” about anything that didn’t have to do with her prize winning, best-in-show Sir Wesley’s Sunshine Bringer. 

“She _will_ be able to make it for the wedding, though,” Mrs. Dursley continued. “She is just _so_ thrilled at being chosen for a bridesmaid, alongside our Lily, here.” Petunia’s fiancée’s mother reached over and patted my hand, and I smiled sweetly at her. 

“And Lily simply cannot wait to meet Marjory, isn’t that right, Lily?” My mother turned her ever-so-polite smile on me, and her eyes widened slightly, dangerously, daring me to be anything but the epitome of well mannered tonight. 

“That’s right,” I said, nodding enthusiastically. “I’m sure we’ll get on fantastically. We might even be able to go get manicures and pedicures together before the wedding, you know, like a girls’ night out thing.” I threw in an overly obvious wink, just for good measure, and saw my dad’s face break into a grin. Mrs. Dursley, though, was either oblivious to my sarcasm, or just too thick to cotton on. I opted for the latter. 

She squealed and clapped her hands together like a little girl. “Oh, that would be so much _fun_! I’m sure Margie would just love spending time with you, Lily, you’re such a _darling_ girl.” 

I smiled graciously. “Thank you.” 

My sister’s engagement to Vernon Dursley—short, squat, beady eyed, and the word “boring” incarnate—was no less than a shock to us all. Petunia had gone out to the supermarket to pick up a few things for my mum, ran into Vernon, and just like magic, she’d fallen head over heels. She’d come home with a dreamy look on her face, and his business card in her hand; they’d gone out for lunch the very next day. 

It was a mystery to all of us how she’d fallen for him; he was from a wealthy family the next town over who were the type of people that discussed politics and economics at the dinner table and read _The Guardian_ for fun. None of us were about to complain, though. He’d taken my out of control sister and turned her into one of those typical housewives with the matching jumper and shirt ensembles and the pearl necklaces and the celery sticks that were all cut to exactly the same length, nine and a quarter centimetres, thank you. But, he seemed to genuinely care about her, and Lord knew _she_ cared about _him_ , so what could we do? 

Their wedding was scheduled for August thirty-first, nine days away, and the closer the date got, the more jittery my sister became. My mum had invited Vernon and his parents down for dinner in hopes that getting all the wedding’s loose ends tied up would calm her down. So far, the desired effect had yet to present itself. 

“Lily, darling, won’t you help me with the dessert in the kitchen?” My mother asked, reaching across the table to lay one of her cool hands over mine. 

“Of course.” 

I rose from my chair and daintily smoothed down the skirt of my dress before following her into the kitchen. 

As soon as we were through the door, my mum’s ramrod-straight back slumped, and she raised a hand to pass it wearily over her face. 

“If you want, I could poison the crumble,” I offered, lifting the lid of the pan and peering in at the top of the golden-crusted dessert. “I know a few spells.” 

She rolled her eyes and swatted my hand away; the lid fell with a clatter back onto the pan. “Behave yourself.” 

“What?” I asked innocently. “It was just a polite offer.” 

She levelled a dark glare at me. “I’m sure it was. Get the ice cream, please.” 

“Can I at least take these heels off?” I asked as I took the two necessary steps to reach the ice box that my mother had been closer to than I was, and opened the door, fishing around among frozen boxed dinners and various packages of raw meat until I found the container of Cornish vanilla shoved in the back corner. I took the lid off and sniffed once, wrinkling my nose. “Is this still good?” 

“No, you may not take your shoes off,” she answered curtly, reaching out for the tub without lifting her eyes from the slice of apple crumble she was cutting. “And as for the ice cream: your father can’t eat it because of his blood sugar, you’re lactose intolerant, and I’m trying to shed a few pounds.” 

I smirked. “What about Petunia?” 

She scooped out a spoonful and dropped it onto a wedge of crumble. “Your sister is well trained in how to tell good ice cream from bad. I did teach you girls a few things, contrary to popular belief.” 

I shook my head in mock disapproval and _tsk_ ed. 

“Oh, hush. You know you’d do the exact same thing. Throw this in the sink and grab a plate on your way back out.” 

I tossed the ice cream carton she handed to me into the sink, grabbed two plates from the counter, and plastered another cheesy smile on my face as we swept elegantly back into the living-room-turned-dining-room-for-the-night. 

“Apple crumble,” my mother was saying as she set a plate down in front of Mr. Dursley, “with a dollop of homemade vanilla ice cream.” 

I set a plate in front of Mrs. Dursley, and then plopped the other one down unceremoniously—since my mother wasn’t watching and everyone else was focused on the food—in front of my father, who looked incredulously from his ice cream-less crumble to everyone else’s, and then up at me. I shrugged and mouthed, “Sorry.” His eyes narrowed in a glare as he stabbed his fork down into his dessert. 

The evening passed achingly slowly as we moved from dessert to cigars and brandy, and tossed about various trivial topics— _Annette, wouldn’t that china look just divine with the rest of the table?_ and _Oh, George, tell them the joke about the Japanese golfer!—_ that held little or no interest for me. I sat in the armchair next to the fireplace, purposely slouching in my seat and sighing heavily every few minutes for everyone to hear. My mother shot glare after glare, but I just grinned to myself, happy with my misbehaviour, glad that I could let out the little devil’s streak I had been born with, if only for a few hours. 

It was with great gusto that we finally escorted the Dursleys to the door and wished them a safe drive home around ten-thirty. As soon as the door shut behind them, Petunia turned on me, her sparkling smile turning into something that resembled a snarl. 

“Could you have _been_ any ruder?” she snapped, her shoulder bumping against mine, hard, as she brushed past me to stalk into the kitchen. “God, Lily. Why didn’t you start belching the alphabet, or flashing your new knickers in everyone’s faces, since you were already acting like a five year old?” 

“Petunia,” my mother warned. 

“And you two, as well!” She was yelling now, standing in the middle of the kitchen, a hand on her hip and a finger pointing at my mum. I leaned against the doorway to the kitchen and crossed my arms over my chest, smirking slightly. She was calling me immature, and yet she was the one yelling and ranting at the top of her voice for the entire neighbourhood to hear?  

“Lily,” my dad said, moving to stand next to my mum and wrap an arm about her shoulders. “Maybe you could go upstairs and work on some of that homework? And your mother and Petunia and I can move into the living room and discuss this situation like mature adults.” 

My parents were all into things like “mature discussions” and “talking your feelings out”. They disciplined as a team, taking the time to listen politely to your side of the story, before evaluating and weighing the options. The whole mindset behind the idea was that we would not only learn to be open with them and be comfortable sharing our opinions, but that by the time it came round to actually dishing out punishments, we’d be so worn out from ranting and raving that we’d be too tired to protest any unfairness. Which was usually how it went. 

“Ha! _You’re_ one to talk about being mature!” I heard Petunia scoff as I made my way slowly towards the stairs, hoping to catch at least part of the conversation before having to shut myself up in my room. “Rolling your eyes every five seconds and staring at the clock like eating dinner with us was the _last_ thing you wanted to be doing!” 

I winced sympathetically for my sister and paused on the steps so I could hear my father’s response. None came, though, and I realised that they would be waiting for my bedroom door to shut before continuing any farther. Reluctantly, I pounded my way up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and closed the door with a loud snap so they’d be sure to hear it. 

I collapsed onto the bed, and the old springs groaned in protest. My eyes travelled around the room, taking in the details that were so familiar to me I could see them clearly with my eyes closed: Petunia’s matching bed, wardrobe and desk set in the opposite corner of the room, diagonally across from mine. The set of bookshelves, the old leather armchair and ottoman down past the foot of my bed, and my own desk and wardrobe. The lavender colour scheme, slightly more mature than the pink lace and bows my mother had first adopted for the room, shortly after I was born. 

In true Lily fashion, I had spent three and a half hours cleaning it this morning—vacuuming, dusting, wiping down the floor boards and walls and blinds with a damp cloth, spreading both beds until they looked suitable for a magazine shoot, complete with hospital corners and all, and arranging what few personal items we had laying about to look casually placed in their spots. I noticed with a surge of pride that my vacuum lines were still visible in the light beige carpet. 

Bored already with just laying there, I heaved myself up with a sigh and dragged my large trunk out from underneath the bed. After hauling it up on the bed, I flipped the lid open and peered down at the collection of books, parchment scraps, and broken quills; a lone Gobstone rolled across the bottom, hitting the side with a dejected thunk. I reached in and pulled out the books, one by one, smoothing down their covers and setting them in a pile. They would join all my other books from previous years over on the bookshelf, soon to be replaced with this year’s new copies. 

Thinking of new books and shopping for them, I reached over to the desk and opened the top drawer, pulling out a heavy envelope. I held it above my outstretched hand and tipped it over, catching not only the usual welcome back letter and list of books, but also a shiny badge with the Hogwarts crest and the words _Lily Evans, Head Girl_ emblazoned on the front in gold script. The note of congratulations that accompanied the badge was currently hanging on our fridge, held up by a rainbow coloured magnet that read _Superstar!_ across the top in bright yellow. I’d memorised the contents—after reading and re-reading it in incredulity—and could recite the words in my sleep, from _Dear Miss Evans_ all the way down to _Sincerely, Albus Percival Wolfric Brian Dumbledore, Hogwarts Headmaster, Order of Merlin, First Class, Member of the Wizengamont High court, etc._

I held the little badge up to my face, peering at the polished gold surface. I could see my reflection, warped and out of proportion, staring back at me. With a sigh, I shoved it back into the envelope, which in turn was crammed back into my desk drawer. 

I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t wanted to be Head Girl. Ever since my first night at Hogwarts when I’d gotten lost trying to find the dormitory and one of the Gryffindor prefects, Louise McMillan had shown me the way, I’d made it my personal goal to become a prefect, and once I’d reached that status, I’d set my sights on Head Girl. And I was happy I’d been selected, but the knowledge that I would have to be working with James Potter, the Head Boy elect—one tiny little sentence stuck in between my list of duties and the instructions for September first—had rather puffed out my candle of excitement. I wasn’t entirely sure that I had the patience or the energy to spend a whole school term dealing with James Potter and his exponential amount of energy and life. Just being in the same room as him exhausted me; he was rather like a two **-** year **-** old—a whirlwind of energy and everywhere at once. Not to mention that just looking at him sent me into fits of obsessive compulsiveness. His tie was always loose and crooked, his trousers were always wrinkled, his shirts untucked, their limp tails hanging out from under his jumper. I was sure that if he could just stand still long enough, I would be smoothing and tucking, straightening, and _fixing_ everything about his appearance that drove me mental. 

A particularly loud shriek drew my attention away from my trunk—which I had been staring unconsciously at for the last few minutes—and towards the bedroom door. I heard my sister’s pounding footsteps as she raced up the stairs and whipped into our room, slamming the door so hard that the windowpane rattled, and one of the picture frames I kept on top of my wardrobe toppled forward with a clatter. I raised my eyebrows as she blew around the room, throwing a set of clothes into a knapsack, and, finally—the telltale sign of her being _really_ ticked—thrusting the window open and tossing her bag out onto the sidewalk. 

“Where are you going?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer, taking a step back to make room as she hopped up on my bed. 

“Lydia’s,” she said shortly, throwing her shoes out to join her bag. 

Then, just like old times, she hoisted herself out of the house and climbed silently down the intricate pattern of uneven bricks and window ledges on the front wall of our house that she had memorised many years ago. I watched her storm down the street, looking slightly mad in her rumpled black skirt and bright pink jumper, tights ripped in a few places and heels dangling from one of her hands, blonde curls slipping out of their French twist, a rucksack hanging lopsidedly off her left shoulder. She took a left at the corner, and glanced back at the house, meeting my eyes, but not stopping, before she disappeared into the shadows, heading in the direction of one of her old friend’s houses. No doubt, she would stumble back to the house in the morning, smelling strongly of booze and weed—something that hadn’t happened in over five months. It would be a rough day in the Evans household tomorrow. 

After easing the window closed and setting the picture back up on top of my wardrobe, I slipped into the hall, heading for my mother’s room. I could hear the soft _whrrrrrr_ of her old Singer and Frank Sinatra’s “Just The Way You Look Tonight” coming through the crack between her door and the jamb. 

I knocked softly and poked my head in. 

“Can I come in?” I asked, waiting until she’d nodded wordlessly to push farther into the room and shut the door behind me. 

I crossed to the other side of the bed and pulled the afghan off the back of the rocking chair, wrapping it around my shoulders before sinking down into the seat. It was an old chair, my great grandmother’s, and the backrest, short and broad, curved out like a wide fan. I leaned back against the worn out velvet upholstery and let my eyes close. 

“She was mad.” 

My mother spoke calmly from the opposite corner of the room, and I opened my eyes to look at her. She sat at her work table, hunched down over her sewing machine as her fingers deftly moved the thin white satin of my sister’s wedding gown in and out and around in loops, securing the beads and the sequins to the fabric. Her dark red hair—auburn, and curly like mine—was tied back from her face in a long, loose plait, the end secured with a rubber band that she had pulled off the pantry doorknob earlier. She had discarded her skirt and blouse in favour of a pair of old jogging bottoms and one of my father’s t-shirts; her feet were clad in mismatched socks, I noticed—a yellow one on her left foot, an orange one on her right. Her frame, tall and slender, radiating pride and that infamous Irish haughtiness, so much like my sister’s, looked oddly crumpled. 

“She left,” I said. 

“I know.” 

This was our ritual, what we did whenever Petunia flew off the handle. The words were strangely comforting, automatic almost. 

“She told me she wasn’t coming back this time.” 

“That’s what she always says when she leaves.” 

The sewing machine stopped, abruptly, and my mother raised a hand to pass it wearily over her eyes. The record had reached its end, and the only noise coming from the old speakers was a soft, fuzzy static. The clock in the corner ticked out the seconds, and the sound was unnervingly loud. 

Slowly, I stood and let the afghan drop unceremoniously back onto the chair behind me. I crawled over the bed, knocking a pillow off in the process, and dropped to my knees in front of my mother’s stool. Her hand, which rested on the edge of the desk, fingers long and slender, nails smooth and polished, was cool in mine when I picked it up. I rested my cheek against the rough cotton of her pants and closed my eyes when I felt the fingers of her other hand brush the hair from my forehead and begin to smooth slowly over my face in that comforting way only a mother can manage. 

“Mum?” 

It was a few seconds before she finally answered, a soft “Yes, Lily?” 

I tilted my head up so that I could see her face. “It’ll be alright. She’ll be back in the morning. Everything’ll work itself out.” 

She smiled once, a weak, watery gesture, and blinked as her icy blue eyes glassed over with unshed tears. Her hand passed once more over my cheek, tucking a lock of hair behind me ear. 

“I know,” she whispered. “Oh, Lily, I know.” 

I offered her up a feeble smile of my own before burrowing my face back in her leg and feeling the moisture of her tears drop every once in a while onto my hair as we sat, continuing the tradition that had been formed so many summers before. The tradition that, we’d hoped, would stop with Vernon. 

But, as we heard the familiar sound of the history channel click on and the narrator’s monotonous speech on the Crusades begin, my mother sighed, and I knew that some things, no matter how much we wished they would, never changed. 

* * * * * * *

**Author's Note:** Hello all :) It's been a ridiculously long time since I've updated this fic, I know. For all of you who didn't read the update on my profile, ABM is going through kind of a revamp. And for those of you who did read the update--I lied. I said it wasn't going to be anything major, but halfway through editing this chapter, I changed my mind. As those of you who have read this before know, this chapter is about half the length of what it was previously. Don't worry, it's all going into chapter two. I felt like this was the true ending of the chapter, and anything I wrote after this was just going to feel wrong. Nothing has changed in the overall plotline of the story, I'm just breaking up several chapters and adding new ones here and there. So, in the new chapter two, you can expect--an elaborated shopping trip with Alice, the wedding in more detail, and more family time with the Evanses. 

Thanks so much for your patience; I really wouldn't be doing this if I didn't have the support of my readers. Please, drop me a review, and let me know what you think of the new version. Constructive criticism and/or tactful reviews are most welcome; flames are not. 

I hope you enjoyed! 

 


	2. chapter two

_**You send your child to the schoolmaster, but 'tis the schoolboys who educate him. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson** _

__

_**chapter two** _

     I was _not_ a morning person. At all. Any time between four a.m. and noon were considered ungodly hours in which no one should ever be made to roll out of bed. And if, by some freak accident, someone _did_ happen to wake me up between those hours…God help them. 

     Needless to say, dragging my limp, weary, and completely uncoordinated body from the comfy confines of my bed at nine thirty the next morning was utter _hell_ —especially after not going to bed until almost four o’clock the night before, and getting only five hours of sleep the _previous_ night. 

     My mother, who was as much a cheerful morning person as I was, grunted by way of greeting as I passed her in the hall. My dad, it seemed—who had conked out on the couch around three-thirty—had failed to rouse himself and was still snoring away on the sofa, a knitted afghan adding to his bulky frame. On any other day, I would’ve banged around a lot more in the kitchen and woken him up, but taking pity on my poor father for once and being too tired for malicious behaviour, I merely plugged in the coffee maker before heading into the bathroom. 

     After falling asleep at least twice, and managing not only to spill half the shampoo down the drain, but bruise my elbow in the process, I figured my hopes of the shower waking me up were futile. I would just have to rely on my daily forty-four ounce thermos of coffee to wash the fuzzy haze from my brain. 

     I popped a couple of strawberry Pop-Tarts in the toaster oven on my way back upstairs, throwing on a pair of old sweats and a t-shirt once I was in my room and bothering to do anything but yank a comb through my tangled hair. I made it back to the kitchen just in time; right as I entered the kitchen, they popped up, cooked and ready to eat. 

     My mum, resembling something close to a zombie in her ratty pyjamas and untamed bed-head, was sitting at the table, staring absently out the kitchen window, a cup of steaming caffeine in her hands. 

     “Morning,” she croaked when she saw me. 

     “You too.” I poured the entire contents of the coffee pot into my thermos and refilled it, turning it back on for my parents to drink out of later. I felt the caffeine waking up my foggy senses almost as soon as I took the first sip. “I hate to tell you this,” I said as I took a seat across from her, “but you have a pretty nasty case of under eye circle this morning.” 

     “That’s rich, coming from _you_ ,” she shot back, self-consciously and possibly absentmindedly reaching up to touch the offending purple half-moons under her eyes.

     I grinned. My mum’s curly hair wasn’t the only thing I’d inherited from her—I’d also gotten her tendency for horribly dark under eye circles. In our house, under eye concealer was a gift straight from the hands of God himself. 

     “Yeah, well, at least my hair doesn’t look like a wild animal’s nest.” 

     She threw her spoon at me, but I caught it before it could collide with my face—and cause even _more_ dark, blotchy spots on my face—and tossed it back to her; she didn’t even bother to try and catch it, and it fell to the table with a loud metallic clang. 

     “What time do you have to be there?” she asked through a humongous yawn. 

     I glanced up at the clock—twenty after ten. “In ten minutes. I’m supposed to be there early to meet up with the Head Boy.” 

     A wicked grin spread across my mother’s face, and I scowled. “This would be the infamous James Potter?” she asked slyly. 

     I rolled my eyes. “Honestly, Mum. You’re just as bad as Alice and Remus. They’re both convinced I’m head over heels in love with him.” 

     “You know what they say,” she sang. “Hate is the opposite of love.” 

     “No,” I contradicted. “The opposite of love is _indifference_.” I stood 

up and shoved the rest of my last Pop-Tart into my mouth, washing it down with a steaming hot swig of coffee. “I need to get going.” 

     “Alright.” She was still grinning cheekily when she leaned forward to kiss my cheek and ruffle my hair. “Be good, sweets. And write me letters this year! Tons and tons of letters! I never get letters from you any more.” 

     “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m kind of on a time crunch when I’m at school?” I asked as I jogged up the stairs to get my trunk. 

     “Oh, don’t even tell me that! You have _plenty_ of time—“ 

     I heaved my trunk off of my bed and began to drag it down the stairs, rolling me eyes. “Alright, alright, I’ll write you letters.” 

     I appeared back in the kitchen, trunk clunking along behind me, and rolled my eyes. “Tell Dad I love him when he wakes up, yeah? And tell him I’ll get to work on those pin-up pictures of all my girlfriends that he wanted. And tell him I told him so when he says he should’ve taken something for his headache last night.” 

     My mother rolled her eyes. “You’re awful.” 

     I grinned. “I try.” 

     “Get going,” she instructed, handing me my thermos and embracing me tightly with one arm. “I love you, kid.”

     “Love you too, Mum.” 

     I took a half-turn, and instantly, the familiar sensation of being forced through a rubber tube a gazillion sizes to small washed over me and squeezed the breath from my lungs. It was with a grateful gasp of air and a soft _pop_ that I reappeared moments later on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. 

     The platform was fairly empty, being that it was half an hour before the train was due to be leaving. There were a few Prefects milling about, and they each raised a hand and called out a chipper “Hallo!” in greeting. I saw a couple of nervous looking first years clinging to skirts of mothers who had to have been Muggles. I made my way over to one of them and smiled as cheerfully as I could manage. 

     “Hi there,” I said, holding out my hand for the mother to shake. “I’m Lily Evans, Head Girl. Do you need any help finding a compartment?” 

     The mother hesitated a moment, looking me up and down uncertainly—taking in my outfit and obviously wondering whether or not I was completely safe to trust with her daughter’s well being—before nodding and following me as I led them to an empty compartment. I did this three more times, and instructed one of the Prefects—a sixth year Hufflepuff by the name of Lucy Reynolds, whom I’d been friendly with for the last couple of years—to take over for me, since I was supposed to be in the Heads’ compartment. 

     Then, with squared shoulders and a grimace, I headed towards the back of the train. As I got closer, I found myself unconsciously slowing my steps—something that was quickly remedied. 

     “Buck up, Evans,” I muttered to myself. “He’s just a boy. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a boy. Just like Remus is a boy, and Frank. They’re decent fellows. And he will be too.” 

     I hesitated at the door to the compartment and took a deep breath. _Here goes_ , I thought dryly as I summoned all of my Gryffindor courage and twisted the latch, sliding the door open before I could loose my nerve. My hand touched the metal of the latch, and I braced myself.

     There he was, James Potter, in all of his messy haired, gangly glory, sitting in one of the seats, a Quidditch magazine open on his lap, his wand stuck behind his ear. As soon as I opened the door, he looked up, a grin pulling up one corner of his mouth and revealing a dimple in one of the smiles that sent half the female population swooning. I ignored it. 

     “’Lo, Evans,” he greeted. 

     “Potter,” I returned, noticeably less enthusiastic, as I lifted my trunk up onto the luggage wrack. 

     “Have a good holiday?” 

     “Spiffing.” 

     I saw him grin at my response as I sat down in the seat across from him, fervently wishing I’d thought to pull a book out of my trunk before I’d tossed it up on the wrack.  

     “My summer was wonderful, thanks for asking,” he said. 

     I turned sideways in my seat, pulling my legs up under my chin and leaning back against the wall of the compartment, and closed my eyes. “Anytime, Potter.” 

     “Congratulations on making Head Girl.” 

     “Mhm.” 

     “Everybody knew you’d make it.” 

     I raised an eyebrow without opening my eyes. “Is that so,” I deadpanned.

     “Yes, indeed.” 

     I ignored him and focused instead on the picture of a beach that I’d conjured up in my mind. That’s what shrinks always told you to do, wasn’t it? Picture somewhere you’d like to be and focus in on it to take your mind off of what was going on in the here and now? Not that it worked, of course; Potter’s tapping fingers, beating out a rhythm on the arm of his chair, kept me rather effectively in the present time and place. 

     “Are you always this polite, Evans,” he asked after a few moments of silence—or as near to it as we could get with his incessant drumming, “or am I just special?” 

     “You’re just special, Potter,” I replied tiredly, still refusing to open my eyes and look at him.

     He hummed in assent. “That’s what I figured.” 

     “If you knew the answer, why’d you have to ask?” 

     “I was trying to be polite and have a conversation, Evans.” His voice was perfectly friendly and cheerful—like one’s might be while discussing the weather. But that was how mine and Potter’s fights went: I was the one with the explosive temper and the nasty comments, and he endured it all in good humour, smiling his way through the entire conversation without batting an eyelid. Which, sometimes proved to be infinitely more infuriating than when he yelled—something that hardly ever happened. I had to hand it to him, though—he didn’t back down. Not many people had the nerve to take on the renowned Lily Evans temper.

     “Did it ever cross your mind that I might not _want_ to have a conversation with you?” I asked. 

     “Did it ever cross your mind that I might not _care_ whether or not you want to have a discussion with me?” Still frustratingly civil. 

     I smirked, trying to cover up my growing irritation. “So we’re back to first year insults, are we Potter?”

     “You started it, Evans.” 

     I opened my eyes only to roll them at him, and he grinned. 

     “I can’t for the life of me figure out how you ended up getting that badge,” I said, reclining my head back once again, though this time I left my eyes open. “Mind sharing how you impaired Dumbledore? Or was it bribery? I wouldn’t put either past you.” 

     He chuckled and laced his hands behind his head, leaning back in his seat. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and find out, Evans,” he told me, answering only my first question and ignoring my other two statements. “It’s a surprise.” 

     “Surprises from you aren’t necessarily _good_ surprises.” 

     My mind flashed back suddenly, randomly, to a time in first year when he’d given me a “Valentine’s Day gift”. I’d opened the pretty red-wrapped package, and out jumped a toad, right onto the top of my head. 

     “That,” he said, lowering one of his hands to jab a finger in my direction, “is a matter of opinion.” 

     I snorted. 

     “Some people rather _like_ my surprises, thank you very much,” he continued.     

     “I’ll bet they do,” I said flatly.

     “Some of my surprises aren’t that bad.” 

     “Mhm.” 

     He didn’t reply, and for a while, a peaceful quiet settled over the compartment—something I never would’ve thought possible with James Potter present. 

     “So,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. I cocked an eyebrow at the irony: just as soon as I acknowledged how nice the quiet was, Potter spoke. How typical. “What’s it going to be this year, Evans? You going to ignore me like last year? Or maybe you fancy the more fiery, violent ways of fifth year?”

     I just looked at him, and he stared back, his gaze light and casual on the outside, but I could see the burning curiosity he was trying so hard to repress. 

     I smirked. “You really want to know?” 

     He shrugged nonchalantly. “Only if you want to tell me.” 

     I settled back once more in my seat, shifting into a more comfortable position and closing my eyes.

     “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, Potter,” I said, using his words against him. “It’s a surprise.” 

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

     I’d always been fairly popular with boys, even when I was younger—a fact that irritated my sister to no end—and that didn’t change when I started going to Hogwarts. 

     Severus was really the first wizard to ever show an interest in me. It was blatantly obvious to almost everyone that he felt more for me than just friendship. You could tell in the way he was overly-protective towards me, snapping at any other boy that had the nerve to come up and talk to me—namely Potter and his group of cronies—until I’d told him to lay off, please, at the end of second year. He had, grudgingly, although I could see him tense up whenever a boy so much as looked in my direction. I thought of his actions as sweet, but made clear to him as soon as I realized he had a crush on me that his feelings weren’t reciprocated. He’d nodded, and looked at the ground, embarrassed, as he scuffed the toe of his shoe across the ground, but perked right up again when I’d said that just because I didn’t fancy him didn’t mean we couldn’t be friends. 

     After Sev, there was a cute little Hufflepuff named Caleb Bradshaw that had asked me out to Hogsmeade at the beginning of third year. He was my first boyfriend, meaning that we flirted, hung out together outside of classes, occasionally held hands, and went to Hogsmeade together. It lasted about two and a half months, and then we just kind of went our separate ways. I was still friends with him; occasionally we’d get paired for Prefect duties together, or I’d see him in the library or in the corridors between classes, and make sure to say hi. 

     Thomas Lang and Ryan Murray were fourth year, and neither one of them were very serious. More like flings than anything else. 

     Fifth year came, and with it Jacob McKelvey. 

     He was really my first serious boyfriend. We dated for pretty much the entire school term—seven out of the nine months we were at Hogwarts. He was my first kiss, the first boy I’d ever said “I love you” to. He was a Hufflepuff, and a year older than me, which I thought was just amazing. Why would a sixteen year old Hufflepuff—and a fairly popular one at that—want anything to do with boring little old inexperienced me? Jake was popular, funny, intelligent, respectful—everything I thought I wanted in a guy.

     Until I found him in a broom closet with another girl. 

     I’d been shocked at first. I couldn’t do anything but stand there, staring at them, my mouth hanging wide open while disbelieving tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over. Jacob had leapt away from the girl—I’d later found out her name was Kathryn Offield; she’d come up to me the next morning and apologized, saying she’d never known Jacob had another girlfriend, and that if it made me feel any better, she wasn’t seeing him anymore either—and reached out for me. “Lily, this isn’t what it looks like,” he’d said, running after me as I stalked down the corridor. _The hell it isn’t,_ I remember thinking as I whipped around and slapped him. 

     The next morning at breakfast, not only did he have a bright red hand print across the side of his face, but he’d mysteriously gained a black eye and a split lip as well, and James Potter had sported a rather smug expression. 

     Ah. James Potter. 

     The story of Potter and mine’s relationship starts way back on September first, nineteen seventy-one. He sat in the compartment with Sev and I, and had teased us both when—after Sirius Black had made a rather nasty comment towards Severus—we’d left to find another place to sit. Things didn’t change very much from that day forward. He’d been mean to me, and out of self-preservation, I stayed away from him, though keeping my distance just became habitual after a few years.

     Potter was Hogwarts’ Golden Boy—brilliant, funny, popular, athletic, witty, attractive, from a wealthy family and pure blood. He had it all. Professors loved him, students wanted to be his best friend, girls fawned over him, and it all went straight to his bloody head. By second year, he thought he had the whole world wrapped around his skinny little twelve-year-old fingers. 

     He started taking notice of me somewhere around third year.

     The summer between third and fourth year was what girls my age referred to as “the magic summer”. Legs stretched out, breasts popped up out of nowhere, hips developed, periods came a-knocking, and we were introduced to handy little tools like tweezers and razors. We weren’t the only ones that hit puberty though—no, the boys in our year got caught up in that confusing whirlwind of gangly limbs and changing voices and roaring hormones. 

     I stepped on the train my first day as a fourth year, feeling the same as I always did on the first day of term—slightly nervous and pretty much jazzed for another year at Hogwarts—barely aware of my new bra and haircut and my recently shaved legs and brace-free teeth, and promptly ran into James Potter. Literally. His oversized head left a bruise on my temple for almost two weeks. His hands shot out to grab me before I toppled backwards, and he started in on his apology— _Merlin, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you at all_ —but then he stopped. And blinked. And blinked again. “Evans?” he asked, peering down into my face, something close to awe in his expression. “Evans, is that you?” 

     “Of course it is, you dolt,” I’d snapped, irritated because my sister and I’d just had a row and I was late, before shoving him aside so I could go find Sev. And as I walked away, he did something that will forever be ingrained in my mind as the most _insulting_ thing a boy could ever do: he _whistled_. You know the kind of whistle I’m talking about—the two syllable one that guys always shoot at girls with big breasts or asses, neither of which I had at the time. 

     The rest, as they say, is history. 

     Potter and I’d never really had much to do with each other. Aside from the occasional prank—of which I was always the victim and he the instigator—and the very rare class partnership, our paths never crossed. But suddenly, after that day on the train, James Potter was _everywhere_ —walking with me in the corridors, sitting next to me in classes and at meals, hanging out with me in the common room, following me around the library while I worked on homework, stalking me and Thomas or Ryan, whoever I was with at the time, when we went to Hogsmeade together. I confronted him after this had gone on for a few months and asked him, quite nicely in my opinion, to please stop following me around because I didn’t really like having him as my shadow. 

     His pursuits became more aggressive after that—a single red rose delivered every morning at breakfast by an owl that would flutter back to his side, giving away the culprit instantly, not that their was ever any doubt who it was; a proclamation of his undying love in the middle of the common room; increasingly snarky and sometimes downright dirty remarks (i.e., _“You got a mirror in your pants, Evans? ‘Cause I can see myself in them”_ and the like), and it was really _that_ that bothered me the most. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t just leave me the hell alone like I’d asked him to, and then we could all go on with our lives.

     At first, most people found it rather intriguing gossip— _Did you hear that James Potter asked_ Lily Evans _to Hogsmeade today? Did you hear that she turned him down_ again _?—_ but then all the hype began to die down, and it just became a normal, everyday thing. Potter asked Evans out again. She turned him down. Big whoop. Did you hear that Arianna Goodfellow got straight O’s on her O.W.L.S?

     I did get lots of questions though— _Evans, why won’t you go out with him? He’s bloody_ sexy!—but the truth was, I never saw what was so exciting about Potter. Sure, he was good looking—tall, and slender, with big eyes that were so many different shades and blends of colour that no one ever could decide what they _really_ were so everyone just called them hazel, and an easy grin that never failed to flash those two little dimples that God had graced his perfect little angel with. No one ever looked close enough to see that his nose was just a _little_ too long for his narrow face, and while he was fairly muscular and fit—he had to be; he threw a bloody _Quaffle_ around, for Merlin’s sake—he most was most definitely _not_ the perfectly sculpted specimen that most girls made him out to be. And, to add to the list of things to not like about him, he was cocky. All his years being at the top of the food chain had inflated his already large ego.

     His attentions were something that, while I found them horribly annoying, everyone else thought they was rather funny. Even my boyfriends would chuckle and shake their heads when my morning owl showed up to deliver my rose. Like they enjoyed watching my misery. And Potter, well, he just would _not_ give it a break. For two achingly long years, he tormented me, and then, at the end of my fifth year—when I was pretty much an emotional wreck due to my recent break up and the exams at hand—I let him have it like I never had before. The lake incident was only the first part; he’d come up to me later that evening while I was in the library and tried to talk to me, but I’d simply slapped him so hard across the face that my hand stung for almost three hours, and stalked out. I’d felt horrible about it afterward—contrary to most peoples’ beliefs, I did _not_ like being overtly malicious to anyone, much less James Potter, who was just a boy that’d let a teenage infatuation grow into an unhealthy obsession. But, he’d crossed the line, and my hormonal, outraged self didn’t take the time to stop and think things through before acting. That infamous Lily Evans temper had gotten hold of me once more, and I’d felt so ashamed about hitting him that I couldn’t even apologize. Especially not when, the next morning, I heard Sirius ask him who’d smacked him and he’d lied and said Snape had gotten one in on him while he wasn’t looking.

     I’ll never forget the guilt that rose up inside of me when his eyes flashed down the table to meet mine, half of his face obscured by the ugly red mark that was exactly the size of my right hand.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

     James Potter was a fidgeter. There was no other word for it. His knees bounced, his fingers drummed, and he shifted in his seat, constantly. 

     And, honestly, it was beginning to drive me a little mad. 

     See, I had this extremely annoying habit of taking something that irked me and spinning it wildly out of control until it was a monstrous thing that took up every single square centimetre of my brain that wasn’t otherwise occupied, and slowly moved to encase not just those available spaces, but the ones that were trying their hardest to concentrate on other things. His tapping fingers, for example—a harmless little noise that, in the short time period of twenty-five minutes, had escaladed to the volume of booming thunder claps, bouncing in echoes off the walls of my brain. 

     I scrubbed my hand over my eyes for what must’ve been close to the hundredth time, and sighed heavily, feeling slightly crazed. 

     “Potter,” I sighed wearily, massaging my temples. “Please. Give it a rest with the tapping.” 

     He glanced up from his magazine, eyebrows raised. “Come again?” 

     “Your fingers,” I said slowly, enunciating every syllable, “are tapping, and it’s driving me crazy.” 

     His eyes moved down to his hand, resting on the wooden armrest of his seat, and he abruptly stilled the offending fingers, clenching them tight into a fist. “Right. Sorry, Evans.” 

     Five minutes later, he was at it again. 

     Breathing a very heavy, very exasperated sigh, I hauled myself off the seat and reached up to the luggage rack, pulling a clean set of robes from my trunk. 

     “Where’re you going?” Potter asked, sounding confused. “We don’t have to patrol or anything, do we?” 

     I pulled in a deep breath through my nose and pushed it back out, scrambling furiously to keep a handle on my temper. I turned to look at him, a sickly sweet smile on my face, and held my robes up. 

     “I,” I said, “am going to go change. And maybe see if I can find the snack trolley. I might even decide to stop by and talk to Remus and Alice while I’m at it. But that really isn’t any of your concern, now is it?” 

     His expression remained delightfully blank for only a second before he pulled himself together and grinned at my sarcastic charade.  

     “I suppose not,” he agreed, a hint of a smile still playing around his lips, as he glanced back down at his magazine. “But do try not to fall into the toilet, yeah? It’s rather cramped in there and you do get kind of jostled around. And I’m sure the ladies wouldn’t take too kindly to their favourite snogging spot being shut down because of someone clogging up the loo with, say, an elbow or something. Oh, and do be careful with the Bertie’s Beans. I know how much you love them, and I would hate to have you inhale one, or something.”

     I shook my head in an almost awed disbelief as I turned and left the compartment. Where the hell did he come up with stuff like this? Did he just make it up as he went along, or did he have some sort of script or something? Bloody Merlin. Here we were, not even an hour into the new term, and he was already giving me headaches. How were we going to work together for an entire year without me murdering him?

     The line at the girls’ restroom was notorious for being at least six people long, and its reputation didn’t disappoint as I joined the mob of seven or eight girls waiting for their turn at the mirror. I slumped back against the wall and squeezed my eyes shut tightly, thinking that maybe if I tapped my heels together three times, just like Dorothy of Oz, I’d magically end up back home, and get to start the whole day over again. I was in desperate need of some sort of caffeine—chocolate, or coffee, I wasn’t picky either way—and a few more hours of sleep, though I knew that wishing for anything but chocolate would just end up as a futile waste of time. What a way to start off the first day of term, I thought glumly, moving forward another space in line. 

     After calming down considerably and spending a grand total of thirty minutes waiting for the restroom to open, only to be inside it for ten, I headed off in search of one of my two best friends. I found Alice first and with her Frank Longbottom, her steady boyfriend of almost two years, and although she seemed happy enough to see me and invited me to share their compartment for the rest of the train ride, I declined, knowing she’d much rather spend the time with Frank. I hit a double whammy a few minutes later, when I coincidentally ran into Remus Lupin at the snack trolley. 

     “Cheers, Remus,” I greeted him happily as we both dug through our pockets for spare change. 

     “Hello, Lily,” he returned, grinning down at me. He was looking a little worse for the wear—his slender frame seemed a bit frail, and he looked rather peaky—but his warm brown eyes sparkled happily, as they usually did. “Good holiday?” 

     “Glad it’s over,” I said with a good-natured eye roll. “Yourself?” 

     He shrugged. “As good as it gets for me. Spent a lot of time over at James’s.” 

     I pulled a face as I reached out to take my box of Bertie’s Beans, and he laughed. 

     “Tell me,” he said, breaking off a piece of his Honeyduke’s best and handing it to me as we began to amble towards the front of the train, where apparently the Marauders’ compartment was. “Has James managed to drive you up the wall yet?” 

     I gave him a dark look. “Why do you think I’m out walking the corridors? For kicks?” 

     He laughed then, and stole one of my beans—cherry, by the looks of it, and the only reason I let it slide. “I just assumed you were out patrolling or something.” 

     “Sadly, no,” I said with a sigh. “Just out for a very, very long walk that will hopefully, if I plan it the right way, last for the duration of the trip.” 

      Remus shook his head, an amused smile spreading over his face. “You’re a mess.” 

     I shrugged and took another piece of chocolate from his outstretched hand. “So I’ve heard.” 

     We walked in companionable silence then, both of us just content to be around each other after such a long summer apart. After a few minutes, we reached the compartment where the rest of the Marauders were sitting, and Remus glanced over at me, an apologetic look on his face. 

     “They sent me out over half an hour ago for food,” he explained, a hand on the knob.

     I rolled my eyes. “Oh, go ahead. I’ll see you at the feast.” 

     He grinned at my theatrics, and ducked into the compartment on the left. I could hear Black and Pettigrew demanding to know where he was and what he’d been doing, until the door slid shut and the noise was abruptly cut off. 

     I turned, feeling slightly depressed and utterly disgusted with the fact that a single seventeen year old boy could make me this miserable, and began walking back in the direction I’d come from. 

     We arrived at Hogwarts a little after dusk. As I pulled my trunk from the compartment and headed off to find Alice, I could barely make out the six oval rings of the Quidditch pitch, and in the even farther distance, the hazy outline of the castle itself. The familiar sights and sounds and smells of returning to school were everywhere—kids bustled back and forth across the station platform, owls and cats called greetings to one another from their cages, steam from the engine of the train fogged up the air and made every breath you took a little too thick and heavy. Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper, stood towards the rear of the train, closer to the boat docks, and called out his usual cry of  “Firs’ years, this way please! Firs’ years, righ’ over here!” 

     “Lily! There you are!” 

     I turned at the sound of my name to see Alice and Frank hurrying towards me through the sea of students. 

     “We’ve been looking all over for you,” Alice said, a little breathlessly, as she grabbed onto my arm and started pulling me in the direction of the carriages. “We’ve already gotten a carriage.” 

     I felt a smile begin to spread across my face as I watched my best girl friend pull me through the crowd. At five foot even, she really didn’t get very far in crowded areas; people tended to trample over her, instead of moving to make room for her. I gently pulled my arm out of her grasp, and grinned at her when she looked back at me. 

     “Relax, Al,” I told her. “The carriages won’t leave without us.” 

     She smiled, sheepishly, and fell into step beside me, Frank on her other side, patiently guiding her towards the carriage where they’d left their things. Seeing the two of them like this, in an overly-populated place, never failed to remind me of why they worked well together: Alice was a little high-strung, worried a little too much, while Frank was laid back, Mr. Cool, twenty-four seven. 

     “Did the rest of the train ride go alright for you?” Alice asked as I climbed up next to her and plunked myself down on the bench seat, leaning over the side rail to help Frank get my trunk up as well. “James didn’t bother you too much, did he?” 

     I leaned back, making room for Frank to climb up. “Of course he bothered me. He’s Potter.” 

     It was true. I’d spent the last five and a half hours of the seven hour trip listening to him hum and whistle and flip the pages of his magazine, _flip, flip, flip_ , a little too fast for him to actually be reading it. I’d tried to focus on the book I’d pulled out of my trunk after returning to the compartment, but barely made it half a chapter through I was so distracted. He didn’t try to talk to me, though, which surprised me, and was probably the only reason he was able to make it off the train in one piece. 

     “But it wasn’t too bad?” 

     I rolled my eyes for Frank to see, and he just chuckled.

     “No, it wasn’t too bad. _Mum_.”

     She made a face at me, but let the subject drop. 

     The Great Hall was full of its usual start-of-term chatter as everyone conversed, checking out friends’ new haircuts and seeing what sort of gossip they could dig up. Alice and I took our usual seats next to Remus—who played buffer between the two of us and the Marauders, linking our two groups and faithfully moving back and forth between conversations so as not to offend anyone—just as the line of first years began to timidly make their way to the front of the hall. The din in the hall grew progressively softer, until it was just a murmur of voices blending together in a low hum.

     McGonagall unrolled the long scroll of names, and the Sorting began. The first boy up, “Allen, Timothy”, was a short, wiry-looking boy, who trembled visibly as he walked towards the Sorting Hat’s three-legged stool. He perched gingerly on the edge, and McGonagall dropped the Hat onto his head; it fell all the way down to his narrow, pointy shoulders. Everyone waited on bated breath for a few moments, while the Hat deliberated, and then there was a loud cheer as it called out, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

     I smiled as I watched the boy, who was now grinning widely, squeeze in between a couple of second years at the Hufflepuff table. The Sorting was an exciting time, and not one that was easily forgotten. I still remembered the way I felt as I made my way up to the stool, shaking with nerves and feeling as though I might be violently sick at any moment. The Hat had taken almost five minutes to decide which House to place me in—it’d had a hard time choosing between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw—and I’d just known that at any moment, Professor McGonagall was going to whisk the Hat away and declare to the entire hall that there’d been some glitch, that I wasn’t really a witch after all. But, alas, the Hat had called out “GRYFFINDOR!” and I’d skipped down to the Gryffindor table, beaming. 

     “Blimey,” I heard Sirius Black, one of Potter’s friends mutter as the applause from the Hufflepuff group began to slowly die down. “Were we that tiny when we were firsties? They’re titchy little things!” 

     “You say that every year, Padfoot,” someone, Potter by the sounds of it, pointed out, and somebody else—Peter, maybe?—laughed. 

     “Well,” Black shot back defensively, “they get smaller every year!” 

     “Or maybe you just get bigger.” 

     Another snicker, and then they fell quiet as McGonagall called the next first year up to the stool, a girl named “Arnold, Susan”. I clapped heartily as she became the first new member of Gryffindor.  

     When the Sorting was over, Gryffindor proudly sported eleven new first years—all of them violent shades of pink and red, thanks to the Marauders’ boisterous welcoming. Their rather embarrassing catcalls and whooping was cut short, however, when Professor Dumbledore stood up, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the entire hall, and beaming down at us all. 

     “Students both new and old,” he said, “welcome. Welcome to another year at Hogwarts. Before we take part in the glorious feast that the Hogwarts kitchen staff have prepared for us this evening, I would like to say a few words. And they are: Wimble! Boatswain! Billander! Pluck!”

     A few chortles rang out as the headmaster took his seat, but most of the attention was focused on the heaps of food that had just materialized on the golden plates in front of us.

     “Isn’t that unhealthy?” Alice asked, eyeing Potter and Black warily as they practically inhaled their food. “Can’t they, like, choke?” 

     I shrugged. “Probably. Not that any of them care.” 

     She stared at them for a few more seconds, the little furrow between her eyebrows growing deeper—a telltale sign that she was worrying again. I rolled my eyes, reaching across Remus for another roll. 

     After the last crumb had been magically swept from the shining golden plates and the benches at the House tables were groaning with the weight of so many well-fed students, Professor Dumbledore stood once more, and another hush fell over the hall. 

     “I do have a few announcements to make before I dismiss you all to your beds,” he said. “First and foremost, we are happy to welcome another staff member into our presence, Professor Pomona Sprout, who will be taking over Herbology for Professor Abram, as well as taking over as the Head of Hufflepuff House, and Professor Matthew Addams, who will be taking over Defence Against the Dark Arts. Welcome, Professors!” 

     A short, plump witch with wildly curly black hair stood, along with a tall, thin man who looked to be in his early forties and sported a head of greying brown hair, and a light smattering of applause passed around the Great Hall. Dumbledore smiled fondly down at the woman.

     “I would also like to remind you all to check the lists of objects forbidden in the corridors that can be found on Mr. Filch’s door. Last time I checked, there were four hundred and fifty-seven items.” 

     A few people snickered, and Dumbledore himself chuckled before continuing, “And, while we are on the subject of things not allowed, I would like to remind the new first years, as well as a few of the older students—“ his eyes flickered down to the Marauders, all four of whom were smiling innocently back up at him “—that the Forbidden Forest is, just as its name implies, _forbidden_ , and that anyone found inside of it, unaccompanied by a teacher or other staff member, will be severely punished.

      “Professor McGonagall wishes me to remind you all as well that the opportunity to visit Hogsmeade Village is a _privilege_ , not a _right_ , reserved only for those students third year and above that have signed permission forms, and can be taken away at mine, or any of the other staff members’ discretion, until such time as we believe you are mature enough to handle it responsibly. 

     “I would also like to congratulate this year’s Head Boy and Girl, James Potter and Lily Evans, respectively, as well as this year’s Prefects, both new and old.”

     There was a hefty amount of applause and whispers, punctuated by a sharp round of whistling from Black, as students twisted around in their seats to look towards the Gryffindor Table. I waved and smiled at the little first year girl I’d helped on the platform, who was now a Ravenclaw, and she waved back. 

     “Now,” Dumbledore said, and there was suddenly an air of gravity surrounding him. Almost within a second, all approximations of chatter were silenced, and every single eye was on the Headmaster. “On to more grave matters.” He smiled, but the gesture was sad and fleeting.

     “These are dark and dangerous times,” he said, his voice stronger than it had been before. “Many of you have heard of a dark wizard who calls himself Lord Voldemort.” 

     There was a sharp intake of breath from most of the upperclassmen, but the rest of the students, who were first years and most likely Muggle-borns, just looked around in confusion. Potter, who sat across from me and down two seats, had lost all semblance of the grin that had been stretched across his face just seconds before, and now wore a rather grim expression. 

     “For those of you who _have_ heard of him, please bear with me while I explain to those who have not.” 

     Dumbledore stepped down from the little platform he had been standing on, and walked slowly towards the end of the tables, resting his hand upon a little first year’s shoulder and smiling kindly down at him. 

     “Lord Voldemort is the alias of a man who once attended this very school. After he graduated, he gathered a group of followers, who pledged their allegiance to him and his plan of wiping out Muggles, Muggle-borns, and half bloods alike. Since then, he has remained fairly inconspicuous, biding his time and gaining more power by the day. 

     “Some of you may remember a few years ago when a large group of Muggles was attacked on the street in London by a group of people that called themselves Death Eaters. They were followers of Voldemort, and the attack was their way of letting the Ministry know that their master was ready. He had grown immensely powerful, and was ready to execute his plan of attack on all those with ‘dirty’ blood. He was giving the Ministry of Magic a choice—they could either work with him, or pay the consequences. They were either with him, or they were against him.”

     There was ringing silence in the hall as everyone contemplated what Dumbledore was saying. I’d already heard all this before—the attack on the Muggles had made front-page headline news in the _Prophet_. Not to mention the information the Professor had disclosed to us when I, along with Remus Lupin, had become Prefects in fifth year. Nevertheless, it still made me shudder to think of, and rightly: I was part of the group of people Voldemort was targeting. 

     “I am not telling you this to frighten you,” Dumbledore said, moving back up to his little podium in front of the staff table. “I apologize if I have. I merely wish for you to be well informed of what is going on, for as they say, knowledge is the beginning of wisdom. I am asking you, this evening, to be extremely careful in these coming weeks and months. Keep your friends and enemies close, and always, _always_ , remain attentive to that little voice in the back of your mind that some people refer to as their conscience.” 

     He stopped to smile gently down at us all, looking very much like an elderly grandfather of sorts. 

     “And, now that I have said all that needs to be said, I will dismiss you all to your dormitories. Please remember to get _some_ sleep—classes _do_ start tomorrow, and tardiness will not be excused for anyone except the first years. Prefects, please make sure all of your House’s first years get safely to their dormitories. Goodnight, and sleep tight!” 

     There was a deafening scrape as the benches were pushed back and all the students rose to their feet. Several calls of “First years, over here please!” echoed through the hall, and Remus hurried off to collect the new first years. 

     I turned to Alice, who was standing beside me, and she smiled, reaching out to give me a hug. 

     “I’ll see you at breakfast,” she said as Frank came up behind her. She laced her fingers with his almost absentmindedly, and cast a fleeting smile over her shoulder to where he and Sirius Black were having a borderline heated discussion on the Chudley Cannons.

     “Alright,” I agreed. “Sleep well.”

     She turned her attention back to me and grinned, her dark eyes dancing mischievously. “Oh you too. Have fun with James in that _private dormitory_.” 

     I made a face at her, but she merely laughed, a high, tinkling sound, as Frank dragged her off through the crowd. In seconds, she was lost in the sea of students spilling out of the doors. 

     I lingered behind a bit, making sure I was one of the last ones to leave the Great Hall and that everyone else had cleared out, before heading up to the fifth floor corridor. 

     The entrance to the Heads’ dormitories was located right across from the Prefects’ bathroom on the fifth floor, behind an elaborate portrait of the four founders. I gave them my password, and the portrait swung forward, revealing a short passageway that opened up into a large common area. I glanced around the room, taking in the overstuffed furniture, roaring fireplace, and shelf-lined walls. French doors on the far side of the room led to a balcony, and the stately glass panes were flanked by large oak doors, the plaques on them reading _Head Girl_ and _Head Boy_ , respectively. Potter’s door was shut tightly, and from somewhere in the wall behind me, I could hear water whooshing through pipes.

     I stepped into my new room, glancing around speculatively. It was very organized, and spotless—two very good things—with all of my personal belongings already placed on the shelves and desk; my empty trunk sat on the little settee at the foot of the large, four poster bed that took up most of the central floor space. The wall to my right was completely taken over by a set of floor to ceiling bookshelves, separated in the middle by a large window seat, while the opposite wall had another pair of French doors leading out to the balcony as well. Across the little stone porch, I could see Potter’s room through his set of double doors; the floor plan was exactly the same, just flipped, but his room was already trashed with clothes, books, and even a broomstick that was thrown carelessly onto a chair in the corner. I shuddered. 

     I wandered across the room to the little bathroom and peeked around at its white marble sinks and tub, glass shower stall, and tiny toilet stall. 

     It was only a little after nine, but since my belongings had already been put away and I had nothing else to do, not to mention that I was dead tired, I changed into my pyjamas—a pair of old navy blue and green plaid flannel pants and a long-sleeved white t-shirt with the name of my favourite Rugby team printed across the chest in red block letters—and ambled over towards the bed, folding back about six layers of blankets and sheets. I was just about to crawl into bed, when a soft knock interrupted me. I looked up towards the door to see Potter poking his head in. 

     “Sorry,” he apologized. His gaze darted around the room, and his eyebrows jumped up when they took in its cleanliness; he was obviously impressed. “I didn’t realize you were going to bed.” He squinted at the clock on my bedside table. “Bit early yet, isn’t it?” 

     I shrugged. “Don’t have anything else to do.” 

     He rocked back on his heels, nodding. “Ah. I see. Well, I just wanted to remind you that we’re supposed to be holding that Prefect meeting in the library, in case you needed to prepare notes or anything.” 

     I blinked. James Potter wanted to _remind me of a Prefect meeting?_ So I could _prepare notes_? What the hell?

     “Erm, uh, thanks,” I managed to stutter out, scrambling furiously for my composure. “Thanks,” I repeated lamely. 

     He grinned—the gesture that said he clearly understood why I was so flabbergasted—and backed out of the doorway. “You’re welcome, Evans,” he said as the door clicked shut. “’Night.” 

     I stared at the spot where he had been only moments before. Shaking my head to clear it of its daze and contemplating the idea of some sort of strange food poisoning being behind his abrupt bout of responsibility, I crawled under the blankets and extinguished the lamp on the bedside table with a wave of my wand. 

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

**Author’s Notes:** Hello again! Thanks for reading, and do leave a review, if you feel so inclined. 

**Edit 4/4/09:** A huge thank you to my beta, Nisha (lilyevans) who pointed out that I didn’t introduce a new DADA professor. Problem fixed, Nisha! :) 


	3. chapter three

**_But I always find a way to keep you right here waiting. I always find the words to say to keep you right here waiting._ **

_**~Staind, Right Here** _

_**chapter three** _

 

     The first day of term was always the worst. The professors were stricter, the classes harder, and everything just a little rusty from being given a two month break. Your sense of direction was always a little bit off whack, and you ended up late to half your classes because you underestimated the amount of time it would take for you to get there, or you ran into a group of first years who decided to stop and clog up the corridors with their pointless preteen chatter. Your homework load was always ridiculously heavy, courtesy of professors who wanted to boost their self-esteem by hearing the inevitable groans and moans of their students as they handed out assignments, two and a half scrolls on how the phases of the moon affects potion-brewing to be handed in bright and early on Thursday morning, please and thank you. 

     Today was no exception. 

 

“Now, as you all know, this year is a very important one, as far as your academics are concerned. This will be the year that you take your N.E.W.T examinations, the very same examinations that will determine what careers you will be able to apply for in the very near future. That said, this year will be extremely rigorous; all of your classes will be demanding, you will be assigned multiple assignments in each class, and this may possibly be the most important one so far for you lot.” 

      The only sound in Professor McGonagall’s N.E.W.T-level Transfiguration class, apart from the Professor herself, was the rhythmic scratching of quills as most of the eighteen students rushed to get down the lecture notes that had magically appeared on the blackboard as soon as she’d begun talking. 

     “She’s very optimistic, isn’t she?” Alice muttered to me as she eyed Professor McGonagall—who was meandering through the rows of desks, casting her sharp eyes over us all—warily. 

     “Too right, she is,” I whispered back, raising my eyebrows at my best friend. 

     “They all seem to be especially cheerful today, don’t they?” she asked in reference to all of our other professors, who’d given us nearly the same exact speech. 

     “Don’t you know it.” 

     “Miss Evans, Miss Prewett, do you have something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?” 

     I looked up at the Transfiguration professor and smiled sheepishly. “No, Professor.” Alice sat next to me, staring at the wooden desktop as if looking away was synonymous with losing her life; out of the corner of my eye, I could see her bright crimson blush. 

     Professor McGonagall’s eyes moved back and forth between us and narrowed slightly. “Hmm,” was all she said as she turned back around and headed towards the front of the class. I elbowed Alice, giving her a dark look when she glanced up at me. 

     “Thanks,” I mouthed sarcastically. Her only apology was a shrug. 

     “In this particular class,” McGonagall continued, “we will spend the first semester learning new skills, such as human transfiguration—the art of changing humans into other things, both living and nonliving, and back again—as well as how to differentiate between charms, transfigurations, and other forms of metamorphing on sight, and a few nonverbal transfiguration skills. After we return from the holiday break, we will spend the weeks leading up to your testing reviewing what you have learned over the past seven years. Needless to say, it is crucial that you master _every single step_ of what we’ve done, and that you are both comfortable and confident enough to do it on command, with no preparation time given, which is what the practical portion of your examinations will be **.“**

     I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach, and I swallowed—a nervous habit. Transfiguration was the one subject that I struggled with. While I’d never done poorly, my marks in the class weren’t up to the personal standards I set for myself. Perhaps I would have to invest some time in receiving tutoring… Though, if what all our professors were saying was true, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d have the time to invest. 

     “For this class period, you will be reading chapter one of _Advanced Transfiguration: A Collection of Theories, Laws, Myths, and Rules_. I would like you to write two rolls of parchment summarizing the selection, and explaining, in your own words, what each of the theories listed describes.” 

     There was a collective groan as McGonagall’s assignment wrote itself up on the blackboard, but it was quickly silenced by one of her trademark tight-lipped glares.

     “What the bloody hell are they all playing at?” I heard Black, who was two rows behind me and across one, mutter to Remus in exasperation as he rummaged around in his bag for his textbook. “Are they trying to kill us all in the first week back? Drown us in the ink from our essays?” 

     Remus chuckled. “That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think, Pads?” 

     “Not far off the mark, though,” Alice murmured, having heard the conversation as well. 

     I hummed in agreement. 

     “Miss Evans. If I have to tell you one more time to be quiet, it will be points taken from your house.” 

     I ducked my head down closer to my book. “Yes, Professor.”

     I skimmed through the selected section, not really comprehending it at all. My mind was running through the day’s classes, tallying up the amount of homework I would have to work on: three scrolls describing in detail the effects of a Cheering Charm gone wrong for Charms, two scrolls on the properties of a Bezoar and its many uses for Potions, an in-depth description of vampires as well as the origins of their myths for Defence Against the Dark Arts, a literal translation of a five page selection complete with proper grammar and spelling for Ancient Runes, and now this essay for Transfiguration… The list kept getting longer and longer. And on top of all that, Potter and I had to lead a Prefects’ meeting from eight to nine, further diminishing any study time I might’ve had this evening. 

     _Well_ , I told myself resignedly, _looks like somebody’ll end up in the library for breakfast and lunch tomorrow. And maybe dinner tonight_ , I tacked on, thumbing ahead to see that this book’s first chapter ended on page fifty-seven. Stupendous. 

     The bell suddenly rang, signalling the dismissal of class, and I jumped, startled. Cursing myself inwardly for daydreaming and not getting any work done, I shoved my books in my bag and swung it over my shoulder, following Alice out of the class.

     “See you at dinner?” she asked, glancing back to make sure I was there. 

     “I can’t,” I told her, shrugging my bag into a more secure position. “I’m going to go to the library for a bit,” I said by way of explanation when her eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Hopefully get a head start on some of this work. Don’t worry, I’ll nip down to the kitchens later and pick up a sandwich or something.” 

     Alice looked doubtful. “Are you sure? Do you want me to bring you up something while you’re in the library?” 

     I shook my head, dismissing her worries with a wave of my hand. “Nah. It’s alright.” 

     “Well…” She hesitated at the foot of the stairs that would take her up towards Gryffindor Tower. “If you’re sure.” 

     “Positive,” I assured her, fighting an eye roll at her maternal antics. “I’ve got that Prefect meeting tonight anyway. I’ll be close to the kitchens.” 

     “Okay then.” She still didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t fight the subject any longer. “Tell Remus to come get me after the meeting so I can meet you down there. You know how I love those chocolate chip biscuits.” She grinned suddenly, and I smiled back. 

     “Alright. See you.” 

     I sighed exasperatedly as I headed off towards the library, shaking my head. I loved Alice, I really did, but sometimes she could be such a pain with her constant worrying. I didn’t know how Frank put up with her. But, then again, I was pretty anal myself, so I couldn’t really talk. 

     The library was fairly empty when I reached it; most of the students were down in the Great Hall for dinner. Madam Pince, the middle-aged librarian who bore a strange resemblance to a vulture, sent an approximation of a smile in my direction, and I returned the gesture. I’d spent some time helping her out last year, when I wasn’t busy, and had gotten to know the woman well. 

     I made my way to the back corner, to the little table where I usually studied that was situated conveniently between the open area and the Restricted Section—which I was allowed to peruse freely this year, as I was Head Girl—and plopped down in one of the hard wooden chairs, pulling out my Charms book as I did so. I flipped it open to the section we were studying, and picked up my quill. 

     _Healers have used cheering Charms since the beginning of the sixteenth century around the world as a temporary reliever of depression…_

     A little over an hour later, I had managed to finish both the Charms and the Potions essay, gaining an extremely sore arm and a mind-splitting headache in the process. Stuffing my books hastily in my bag—I’d lost track of the time and only had about five minutes to get down three floors for the Prefects’ meeting—I cursed my natural ambition for getting me stuck with an insane amount of work this year. What had I been thinking, taking on two more classes than the required amount for the term and accepting a Head position? This was my last year at Hogwarts; I should be relaxing and having fun, not working my butt off.

     I slid smoothly through the door of Professor McGonagall’s classroom—the location of the meeting—just as the clock in the Entrance Hall struck eight. I smiled at the group of Prefects seated round the long oval table that had taken the place of the classroom desks, mentally noting who all was absent. I met Remus’ eyes briefly as I made my way around the circle, and he smiled for a split second, a strange mixture of apprehension and apology on his face. I was puzzled until I had gone through my entire list of names and realized who was missing. 

     Potter. 

     I felt the familiar exhausted exasperation trigger a throbbing in my head, and I quickly began the meeting, hoping that leading it would distract me from my irritation. 

     “Hello,” I greeted the group, forcing another smile. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I was up in the library and I lost track of time.” 

     One of the seventh year Slytherins, Evans Rosier, smirked, and he leaned over to whisper in Marie Rosendale’s ear, “Only that _Mudblood_ could loose track of time in a _library_.” 

     A few snickers passed through the Slytherins, and I had to fight to keep the rush of heat from my ears and neck. I saw Remus stiffen slightly in his seat, his eyes glinting harshly as he glared in Rosier’s direction. I continued, though, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin a little. 

     “Professor Dumbledore would like each of you to volunteer for weekly patrols, so if you could sign your name next to the night of the weak that would be best for you, then he will try his best to get the schedule organized accordingly.” I handed the sheet of parchment to the girl on my right, and she scratched her name down before passing it to the person next to her. 

     “Excuse me,” Rosier called, his voice obnoxiously loud, “but what happens if your patrol is scheduled on the same night as your house’s Quidditch practice?” 

     I levelled a cool glare at him. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Rosier, but seeing as you are your house’s Quidditch Captain, you have the liberty of scheduling your team’s practices, do you not?” I asked, not waiting for him to answer before continuing. “And considering that Quidditch practices will not start for another two weeks, and your patrols will start next Monday, you should be able to coordinate the two activities so that they don’t interfere, should you not?”

     There were several hushed “oooh’s”, and Rosier smirked once more, completely undeterred, as he tilted his chair back on two legs. I shot him another cold glance. 

     I went through all the items on the agenda that Dumbledore had made up for me, touching on each subject briefly. I filled out the calendar for the first semester, printing in neat handwriting the dates of all the Hogsmead trips and the tentative patrol dates to give to Dumbledore, discussed the Halloween and Christmas feasts, and brought up the possibility of the Prefects running evening tutoring sessions for the underclassmen, which was met with many grumbles and only grudgingly accepted. 

     By ten to nine, we’d been through every item on the list, and Potter still hadn’t showed up. The slight flare of irritation I’d felt at the beginning of the meeting had festered into full-blown _anger_ , and as I dismissed the Prefects, I had a hard time keeping my voice level and friendly. It didn’t help, either, that Rosier let some not-so-very-nice comments slip as he brushed past me on his way out the door. Needless to say, I was just a tad bit irked when, at five after—just as I was gathering my stuff together to leave— _guess who_ rushed through the door, looking thoroughly dishevelled, flushed and out of breath from running. 

     “Evans,” he gasped, grabbing my arm as I tried to move past him and tripping slightly over his own feet, “wait. I can explain.” 

     And then, all the anger and irritation I’d kept repressed for the last hour bubbled over, rushing up my face and neck in an angry blush. My heart pounded in my ears, echoing hollowly against the sides of my aching skull, the reverberations becoming louder and louder by the second. 

     “You can _explain_?” I hissed, wrenching my arm out of his grasp. “The _hell_ you can, Potter!”

     He moved in front of me as I tried for the exit again, effectively cutting me off for a second time. “ _Wait_ ,” he repeated, putting his hands on my shoulders, out from which I immediately shrugged away, only to have my elbow caught up in his grip on the next second. “Just hang _on_ a second, Evans—“

     “ _No_!” I exploded; staggering backwards as he abruptly released his hold on my arm that I’d been fighting. “You were _supposed_ to be here at eight o’clock!”

     “If you would just let me explain—“

     “I don’t bloody _want_ to hear your explanation!” 

     I stared at him, my chest heaving as if I’d just run a marathon, gulping air down while he looked at me, frustration beginning to flush his already pink ears a deeper shade of red. 

     “So help me, Evans, I’m really trying to keep my cool—“

     “I don’t want to hear it,” I snapped. “I worked all day, didn’t get to eat dinner because I was up in the library studying, and then I led a Prefect meeting all by myself, even though I have a horrible migraine and would’ve much rather gone up to bed and slept, because my _partner_ wasn’t _responsible_ enough to get his _arse_ down here on _time_ —“

     “No hold on here just a second,” he interrupted. “You haven’t even let me tell you why I was late! How can you be accusing me of being irresponsible when you don’t even know what happened?” 

     “Because it doesn’t matter ‘what happened’,” I shot back. “You were late. You shirked responsibilities. And don’t you dare give me that ‘I forgot about it’ shit. You knew good and well we had a meeting tonight because you came into my room last night and _reminded me of it_! And on top of all that, you’ve never given me a half-way decent excuse before, so why should this be any different?” 

     “Oh, that’s rich,” he snapped. “What are you now, Lily, Miss Perfection? Sorry to burst your bubble, but nobody’s perfect—“ 

    “This isn’t _about_ being perfect! This is about the fact that you weren’t here to help—“ 

     “I’m _sorry_ , I wasn’t here, okay? But I got tied up. Things happened that I had to take care of.” 

     “Oh, you mean you were busy hanging Snape by his ankles in the dungeons with the rest of your little cronies?” 

     He stared at me, shaking his head in disbelief, and let out a bitter laugh. “You are unbelievable, you know that? _Unbelievable._ ”

     “ _I’m_ unbelievable? Look in the mirror, Potter, _that’s_ who’s—“  

     “I was talking to Dumbledore,” he cut in coolly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

     “Dumbledore?” I repeated irritably. “Why would Dumbledore call you up and not me?” 

     That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. 

     Potter’s eyes flashed. “Oh, _I_ don’t know. Maybe because what we were talking about had absolutely _nothing_ to do with _you_ , and _everything_ to do with _me_! Crazy idea, I know, but it _could_ happen that way in some wild, fantasy world.”

     I stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. He was yelling at me. He was mad. He was really, honestly pissed off at me. I was speechless. 

     “I worked hard all day, too,” he continued, his voice bitingly low. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have the same classes as you. I didn’t get any dinner either, and I can guarantee that I’m just as tired as you are. I’m sorry if you had a bad day, and I’m sorry that I wasn’t here to help out, and I’m sorry that I yelled at you, because I _really_ didn’t want to, but dammit Lily, sometimes you make it so hard to be nice to you, you know that?” 

     And with that, he turned on his heel and was gone, the door to McGonagall’s classroom slamming shut behind him with enough force to rattle the frames on the wall. 

     I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, sinking down in one of the chairs as I did so in expectation of the after-fights weariness I knew was coming. I was suddenly so exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally—that I just wanted to sit there. My hand shook as I raised it to rub my eyes, and I felt a lump appear in my throat, making it difficult to breathe normally. My eyes started to prick and sting painfully, and I rubbed at them angrily, my hand coming away with a thin trail of moisture on it, as I pushed forcefully out of my chair and stalked towards the door.

     _This is crazy_ , I thought as I swung my bag onto my shoulder. I was crying. I didn’t cry. _Ever_. And I sure as hell didn’t cry because some _stupid_ boy and I got into a little argument.  

     I chalked my out of whack emotions up to early signs of PMS and accredited my throbbing head to the crap night of sleep I’d had last night, and headed out of the classroom, ignoring the little voice in the back of my mind that was my overly soft conscience. 

     Alice was waiting for me in the kitchens, sitting at one of the little tables in the corner, and jumped up when I pushed through the door. 

   “Lily!” she called, rushing over to me. “Merlin, I was worried about you! James stopped by and said you were on your way, but that was almost half an hour ago! What happened to you?” 

     I sunk shakily onto the bench at the table and took the overflowing mug butterbeer that one of the house elves, who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, offered me. I took a careful sip, not wanting to spill any on my clothes. 

     “I’m fine,” I assured her. “Just tired.” 

     She opened her mouth to comment, but she must’ve seen something in my expression that made her stop. 

     I picked at the heaping plateful of steak and kidney pie the house elves brought over to me, not really listening as Alice chattered on about her evening with false enthusiasm. After only three bites, I pushed the plate away and stood. 

     “I’m going to head up to bed, I think.” 

     She surveyed me for a long second, and I carefully kept my eyes from meeting hers. 

     “Alright,” she finally said, rising as well and falling into step beside me. “I’ll walk you back up. It’s on the way, anyway.” 

     Our walk up to the dorm was uneventful and silent; something was bothering Alice, I could tell, but I couldn’t bring myself to care enough to ask. She stopped when we reached the portrait hole, pulling me close for an unexpected hug before letting me go. 

     “Thanks,” I said. 

     She smiled at me, a gentle, mothering kind of smile, and patted my arm. “You’re welcome. Now, go on in and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

     I smiled back fleetingly, taking a step into the entryway of the common room. “Alright.”

     “Oh, and Lily?” 

     I glanced back over my shoulder, raising my eyebrows, too tired to say anything. 

     “I’d be more than happy to beat him up, if you want.” 

     This time, I really _did_ grin, and she did too. 

     “I’ll let you know,” I said.  

     Another soft smile quirked her lips up, and she nodded. “Alright. Goodnight.” 

     “’Night.”

     I watched her until she rounded the corner, then I turned and continued into the common room, stopping short when I saw Potter in the armchair across from the fire. He was facing my direction, but the firelight glinted off his glasses, and I couldn’t tell whether he was looking at me or not, or if his eyes were even open. I hurried past him, pretending that he wasn’t there—noticing as I did so that, yes, his eyes _were_ open, and yes, he _was_ staring at me—even as part of me screamed to apologize. After all, I _did_ have appearances to keep, and apologizing to James Potter was certainly nothing I had ever done before, no matter how many times I’d wanted to.

     Later that night, as I lay in bed, tossing, turning, and trying in vain to summon a few hours of sleep, something he’d said echoed in my mind, sending little shivers of unease up and down my spine: _What are you now, Lily, Miss Perfection? Sorry to burst your bubble, but nobody’s perfect._

     The words repeated themselves over and over until they were blurred, mixing together, singing me to sleep in some sort of dark, twisted lullaby. 

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

     Predictably, the next few days were filled with the usual after-fight awkwardness: those silences that lasted a little too long, the fleeting glances your friends shot you out of the corners of their eyes when they thought you weren’t looking, the trivial topics everyone threw themselves into at the dinner table, the same feeling of not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes because, miraculously, while you had slept, your anger had drifted out of you and floated away with your dreams, and you didn’t want to admit to anyone that yes, you were in the wrong.

     “Why don’t you just talk to him already?” Alice asked, obviously exasperated, as she caught me glancing down the Gryffindor Table for the umpteenth time. My arm shot out, grabbing for the nearest food dish as I tried in vain to make my leaning forward look like something other than what it was: staring at Potter. Luck was against me, though, and the bowl I grabbed was full of creamed corn, which I hated with a passion, a fact that Alice was well aware of. She rolled her eyes and stabbed her pork chop with a little more force than was actually necessary, or so I thought. 

     “I _would_ apologize,” I said defensively, setting the bowl of creamed corn back down on the table and picking up a roll instead, “if he weren’t so damn _happy_.” It was true; a mere ten hours after our encounter in McGonagall’s room two days ago, Potter had gone back to his bubbly, annoying little self, trotting around the castle with Black as if he owned the place. Alice had pointed out that, this being the third year he’d been rejected by me, he was probably used to my blowing up in his face, but I’d just ignored her. “I mean, he was _mad_ , Al. No, mad doesn’t even cover it. He was _pissed_. He _yelled_ at me! He _never_ yells at me!” 

     “I think you’re just upset because the minute you accused him of something, he didn’t fall to his knees and beg forgiveness like he would’ve in fifth year,” Alice said. “I don’t think you’ve ever realized before that James _does_ have a spine, and that he _does_ have at least a little bit of dignity.” 

     “Dignity?” I scoffed. “Potter? A _spine_? No way.” 

     She sighed and elbowed me in the ribs, hard, as my head began to turn reflexively to the right. 

     “Hey!” I rubbed my side and glared at her. “That was completely unnecessary.”

     Alice merely shrugged, popping a spoonful of mashed potatoes into her mouth. “So is you looking down there every five seconds to see if he’s commenced to sulking.” 

     I scowled. “I am _not_ checking to see if he’s sulking.” 

     She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? What are you staring at, then? His dreamy eyes?” She put a hand over her heart and fluttered her eyes towards the ceiling. I kicked her. 

     “Shut up.” 

     She grinned, an infuriatingly impish gesture, and stood, gathering her books up with her. “I’m going to meet Frank in the library,” she informed me. “He’s going to help me with my Muggle Studies paper.” 

     “I’m sure Muggles won’t be the _only_ things you’ll study,” I muttered darkly under my breath as she walked away. If she heard me, she showed no sign of it. 

     I looked down at my plate, picking moodily at my half-eaten chicken breast and sweet potatoes. Why did it always end up this way? I wondered to myself, tearing my roll up into little tiny pieces. Why did he always have to move on and be all hunky dory so much sooner than I did? It made me look bad when he did that, like I couldn’t get over myself or something. 

     “Knut for your thoughts.” 

     I looked up, startled, to see Remus sliding over to sit in front of me, a wide grin stretched across his face. 

     I smiled feebly. “Hey, Remus.”

     “Did that chicken do something to you?” he asked, reaching across to help himself to the half of my roll that was still in one piece. “You’re glaring at it like it’s just kicked your favourite dog, or something.” 

     “Close,” I said, playing along. “Ran over my cat.” 

     He nodded knowingly, effortlessly grave. “Ah. Well, I’m very sorry for your loss, then.” 

     I couldn’t help but grin. “Thanks.”

     It was quiet for a moment, and I moved on to a sweet potato, smashing it into a paste-like consistency with the back of my fork. 

     “You know,” Remus said, “if you’re this upset about it, maybe you should just go talk to him. He doesn’t bite.” 

     “I’m not upset,” I muttered. “I’m just…stressed.” 

     It was silent for a moment, and I looked up to see Remus staring at me, one eyebrow raised in a sceptical expression. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” he asked dryly. “I hadn’t heard.” 

     I rolled my eyes and went back to obliterating my food. 

     After another minute, Remus sighed. “You should at least go talk to him,” he told me. “Tell him you’re sorry.” He knocked on the table twice, a quick _rap, rap_ , and then scooted back down to join the three other boys.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

     Once again, that evening could find me hunched over a humongous stack of books at my same library table, flipping absentmindedly through them, looking for something— _anything_ —to do with a magical creature called a Nundu, on which I was supposed to write a two-scroll paper for Defence Against the Dark Arts. So far, the most I’d found about them was a small, four sentence paragraph in a footnote of _Magical Beings and Where to Find Them._ I could stretch that—add in unnecessary words, go deep into detail of appearance and diet—but even then, it would be nowhere near the required length. 

     I sighed heavily and set down my quill, massaging my temples. According to my watch, it was already almost nine thirty, and I had made absolutely _no_ progress on any of my work, even after being at it for two hours. 

     Heavy footsteps behind me alerted me to someone’s presence, but I didn’t look up. It was probably just another fifth year looking for another copy of _Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , or something like that. 

     “Hey.” 

     Or not. 

     Potter pulled out the chair across from me, twisting it around and plopping down, arms propped across the backrest. 

     “Alright, Evans?” 

     “Can’t you ever come up with anything more original to say when you see me?” I asked irritably, shutting a book loudly and moving on to the next one. “I mean, for the last three years, every single time you see me, you’ve said that same thing. ‘ Alright, Evans?’” I did a horrible impersonation of his voice, lowering mine to as deep as it would go, which, was still not very deep. 

     “Is there something else you’d rather I say?” he asked, reaching over and plucking the stopper to my inkwell off the table, spinning it between his fingers. 

     “I’d really rather you not say anything at all.” 

     I saw him grin out of the corner of my eye. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t think that’s possible.” 

     I raised an eyebrow. “Oh really.” 

     “Yep.” His lips made a popping noise on the “p”. “You see, every time I see you, your wondrous beauty temporarily stuns my brain, and I don’t have control over the things that come out of my mouth.” 

     “So _that’s_ what it is,” I deadpanned.

     He smirked. “Yes ma’am. And I discovered a long time ago that ‘Alright Evans’ seems to go over much better than some of the other things I’ve used in the past.” 

     “That humongous head of yours is full of hot air, you know that?” 

     “I may have heard that a time or two, yes,” he said, grinning.

 

I rolled my eyes. “What do you want, Potter?”

     The stopper spun off the table, and he bent over to pick it up, his messy black hair momentarily the only part of him I could see before he was upright again, back to playing with it.

     “I was wondering if you’d mind giving me some advice?” he asked casually. “Girl advice.” 

     “Girl advice?” I repeated. “What kind of girl advice?” 

     “Well, you see,” he said, leaning forward so that his forearms were resting against the table, instead of the back of his chair. “The other night, this girl and I got into a…fight.” 

     One of my eyebrows slowly edged up my forehead again.  

     “And after that fight, I kind of sort of might’ve run off before I had the chance to apologize the right way. And it doesn’t help that she’s been avoiding me all week, so I haven’t gotten to talk to her.” 

     “’Kind of sort of might’ve?’ Impressive vocabulary, Potter.” 

     He grinned, but otherwise ignored my comment. “So I was wondering what the chances of her accepting my late, but still very sincere, apologies were.” 

     One of the library aids poked her head around the corner, reminding us of the time, and we both stood. “Well,” I said as I shoved all my stuff back into my bag. Secretly, I was sort of glad that he’d brought the subject up, because I knew I’d never have the guts to confront him about it. And he’d done it in a way that wasn’t embarrassing to either of us, which I had to admit, reluctantly, did earn him a few points. “I’m speaking for myself when I say this of course, but I’d say your chances are pretty high.” 

     He adopted a thoughtful expression. “Is that so?” 

     “Mhm. I’d even go as far as to say, if she’s been avoiding you, that she’s just as sorry as you are.”

     “Hmm.” He grinned at Madam Pince as we passed the checkout station, and flashed her a wink; she rolled her eyes, though the gesture was obviously good-natured. “Well Evans, you’ve been a marvellous help. Thank you.” 

     “Anytime, Potter.” 

     We headed in opposite directions once we were out of the library doors. I turned right, my destination being the Heads’ dorms, while he went left, towards Gryffindor Tower. 

     “Oh, and Evans?” 

     I paused, one step up the great marble staircase, and glanced back over my shoulder at him. 

     He grinned. “Apology accepted.” 

     I quirked an eyebrow. “Who said anything about apologizing, Potter? I was merely offering advice.” 

     “Who said anything about needing advice?” he countered with a laugh. 

     I just rolled my eyes and continued up the staircase.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

**Author’s Notes:** Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you so wish :)

**4/10/09 Edit:** For all of you who mark “Grammar and Spelling Mistakes” on the survey, would you please point out to me which mistakes you see so I can fix them? Thank you!


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